


Strength of Character

by LadamaB



Series: Weakness of Character [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Feels, Gen, Max is real deep in his feels, Suicidal Thoughts, Tears, Vague Religion, Zen is a good bean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 18:30:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadamaB/pseuds/LadamaB
Summary: The unofficial companion to Weakness of Character and set just before the events of Chapter 32 in Of Men and Monsters by UnnecessaryEllipses. Or, in other words, Zen is prodding too much and Max is deep in his feels.





	Strength of Character

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UnnecessaryEllipsis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnnecessaryEllipsis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Of Men and Monsters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14609247) by [UnnecessaryEllipsis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnnecessaryEllipsis/pseuds/UnnecessaryEllipsis). 



> I need a tissue. Max got me crying like a little kid.

He found himself sitting at the edge of the cliffs, looking down at the deeply gorged valleys dotted with villages filled with devotees of the Iris. Somewhere down there, people went on with their lives without the damning knowledge that everything was falling apart. They had individual lives and entire spheres of characters playing a part in a life that would never know what Blackwatch sacrificed. They would never know how many names were crossed off the roster so that theirs might remain on the census. 

That’s all we are, anyway. Names in a book to decide if we pay taxes with our pockets or our lives.

A gust of wind blew through the village, swirling the fresh snow with it and pushed him toward the jagged stones below. If he were sure that it would kill him, he’d jump. The soft powder stuck to strands of ice-blue hair that had grown out a few inches so the natural black was just starting to show. At what age was it acceptable to stop dying your hair? He’d be knocking on 85 soon, that was as good a time as any.

“Master Spencer,” Zenyatta’s tinny voice called as he floated peacefully over to where Max had settled himself. The wooden deck that jutted out from the edges of the stone was surprisingly steady, but he’d opted to sit directly on the stone. If he was going to die, it would be on his terms. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nirvana,” Max snorted, leaning back on his palms even though the snow bit into his skin and made his fingers burn.

There were times when Zenyatta would get very quiet and Max was left wondering if he was getting the side-eye or if the monk was actually considering whatever bullshit he’d just spouted off. “I’ve been thinking about love.”   
Max spluttered as he shook his head and looked over at the omnic monk with wide eyes. ‘Love’ wasn’t quite what he’d expected. “Yeah? How’s that goin’ fer youse?”

“It’s… going.” Ever the font of knowledge, this one.

“I bet it is,” Max laughed, running a hand through his hair and traced the mountain tips with his eyes. In another life, there might have been a glimmering green dragon dancing through them; in this one they were alone.

“When you experienced love--” Max didn’t bother to correct him; Zenyatta had this very unnerving way of  _ knowing _ things that he’d only ever encountered before with the Longfeathers. He didn’t want to think about the implications of what might be an omnic Spirit Guide. “--what did it feel like?”

“Uh,” Max blinked and felt heat creeping up his cheeks and over his ears. How exactly do you explain ‘hate fuck’ to a monk? “It was… somethin’. I can’t really ‘splain it to youse.”

“Try.” Zenyatta settled as much as he ever did on the snow. “Please, try to explain it to me.” 

“It was… late night movies on th’ couch.” Max was floundering, trying to pluck out the things that wouldn’t scar the omnic for whatever life span it could expect. “It was early mornings with eggs th’ wrong color. It was sitting in his lap ‘cause he had a bad mission and needed th’ contact, but I had another mission to run and that’s all I could do. It was only being able t’ do so much but having it always be enough.”

“What did it feel like? Love?”

Max swallowed thickly. He didn’t like where this line of questioning was going; these were emotions that he’d buried years ago and didn’t want to dredge back up for a curious omnic. “At first it felt like nothin’. It’s slow ‘n it’ll sneak up on ya. It felt like somethin’ y’ don’t know y’ need till it’s gone. It felt like nothin’ because nothin’ felt so much better than somethin’. I don’t know what y’ wan’t from me, Zenyatta.”   
  
“I want you to be honest with me, Max.” Zenyatta’s faceplate turned to him and Max hurried to wipe the moisture off his face. 

“I  _ am _ bein’ honest with you!” He squawked, voice high from the way his throat closed on emotions he’d been burying for years. “I don’t know what else y’ want me t’ say to youse!”

“The truth, Max.” 

“The  _ truth _ isn’t just somethin’ I can pop off with at whim, here, Zen. It’s this nebulous somethin’ that could be anythin’ and nothin’. You want to know what love feels like? I can tell youse what it  _ don’t _ feel like. It don’t feel like bein’ hollow. It don’t feel like a nagging ache in yer chest where someone used to sit. It don’t feel like lookin’ round your house ‘n recognizing all the things he gave t’ you when he loved you ‘n knowin’ he  _ doesn’t _ anymore.. It sure as  _ shit _ ain’t bein’ in the same room with him ‘n knowin’ every little nook ‘n cranny and all the parts he don’t want nobody to see. All the things youse use t’ be his exception for, but now y’ aren’t. Love ain’t starin’ him in the eye and wonderin’ where the last twenty years went and if they  _ meant  _ the same thing t’ him as they did t’ you.” 

Zenyatta offered a hand on his back as Max ripped a breath in, desperate for oxygen after the sobs forcibly shoved them out of his chest. “Love isn’t hurtin’ like this! It isn’t bein’ empty like this! Love isn’t bein’ abandoned t’ die! It isn’t-- it ain’t-- it--”

“What is it then?”   
  
Max wheezed out a pathetic laugh. “Why are you doin’ this t’ me? Do monks get their rocks off askin’ personal questions? Why can’t youse just help me? I don’t want t’ feel this anymore! I don’t wanna feel  _ anythin’ _ anymore!” His face had sprung a leak and now no amount of sarcasm could patch the hole. Abandon ship. “I can’t do this again, Zen. Please don’t make me do this again.” He gathered his feet under himself and started to walk away when a hand caught his. Max looked back and balked; Zenyatta had manifested a single golden arm and was using it to hold his hand. 

“Humor me, Max. What is love to you?” Zenyatta manifested a second hand and placed it over Max’s as a strange sort of comfort.

The hacker was quiet as his face contorted. He was older and wiser; shaped by his experiences of loving and losing, and of never having the chance to love at all.

“Love is letting them be happy, even if it isn’t with you.” Max’s lips fluttered up from a grimace to a watery smile. “Love is sacrificing everythin’ without feelin’ the loss.”

Zenyatta pulled on his hand and brought the hacker to his side where he could place a golden aura on him. It was harder to heal a broken heart than a broken rib.

“Would you have done it?” Zenyatta asked, startling as Max fell from the sitting position to rest heavily on Zenyatta’s side. He hesitantly rested his arm around the other’s shoulders. 

  
“Probably not,” Max shrugged. Crying made him feel like he weighed a ton and had eaten just as much. He was sluggish and raw from too much emotion without nearly enough liquor. “Maybe one day I’ll musta up the hutzpah t’ go through with it… but today just isn’t that day. It’s complicated. My mother was Jewish ‘n my father was Catholic.”

“That’s what they were, but what are you?” Zenyatta found himself curious to know more about their newest ‘monk’. He had divulged so little in detail to the order, even his emotions were so jumbled that Zenyatta had difficulty deciphering it. 

“I’m  _ tired, _ Zen.” Max’s eyes were closed as he rested his head on the fabric of Zenyatta’s pant where the monk was still floating. “I’m just so tired.”

Zenyatta placed one hand on his head and gently stroked his hair until the weight of tears and emotion finally eased and the tranquility of sleep overtook Max. He could surely use the rest. Over the mountains, a gentle snow was falling to blanket the Earth in something new and fresh. Snow was white and pure; snow gave the world a fresh slate. It would be here soon, and they would greet it. 

_ Venite a me, voi tutti che siete travagliati e aggravati, ed io vi darò riposo. _


End file.
